


And in a Moment, Everything Changes

by zillsonfire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Don't copy to another site, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29418075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillsonfire/pseuds/zillsonfire
Summary: A casual arrangement turns into something more.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 33
Kudos: 148
Collections: Soft Smut Sunday





	And in a Moment, Everything Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Valentine Soft Smut Sunday Mystrade event on tumblr.
> 
> "Write a little smut for Valentine's Day" seems to have turned into "write something three times longer than any of your previous works" and I'm not quite sure how that happened. It's the first E-rated story I've written, which turned out to be much more challenging and time-consuming than I expected it to be, which means less revising than I might otherwise have done. Comments and constructive criticism are therefore very welcome, and will be taken to heart. 
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy this friends-with-benefits-to-lovers contribution :)

It’s morning.

Greg wakes slowly, pulled from sleep by a whisper of sensation down his forearm. Silky sheets slip down the bare skin of his torso to settle at his waist as he turns. The bed seems--wrong; the room too quiet. The light behind his eyelids is a different angle and intensity than it should be. 

The soft touch comes again, rising up over his shoulder, drifting across his collarbone, and realization comes a split second before he opens his eyes.

_Oh_.

Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed, one knee up on the mattress, fully dressed but for his suit jacket. The early light falls gently over him, highlighting the crisp, bespoke folds of his clothing and teasing subtle glints of red out of his hair. There’s a faraway, bemused expression on his face as his eyes follow the path of the roving fingertips brushing gently along Greg’s skin; as if it’s a new discovery, something he’s never seen before.

He has, of course. Just never quite like this.

“We, ah--” Greg clears the morning thickness out of his throat. “We fell asleep.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s voice is barely above a whisper. 

“Not our usual, that.”

Mycroft’s hand stills for a moment. “No.” His eyes flick up to meet Greg’s, then away. “It’s not.”

It's not. But then, Greg thinks as Mycroft’s fingers trail down his sternum and over his ribs, this whole encounter has not been their usual. 

A late-night, last-minute request was not unheard of--but said request showing up as a text certainly was. Seeing Mycroft’s pinched, white face, the slump of his shoulders as he’d opened the door, Greg had wondered if the man hadn’t wanted his voice to betray the state he was in. 

_Because you are in a state, tonight, aren’t you? You’d need to be to let it show._

Greg had quickly led him to the bedroom, but somewhere between the hurried removal of clothing and the cool slide into high thread-count sheets the tenor of the evening had shifted from two-men-with-a-casual-arrangement to something new. Perhaps it had been the lights, low and warm in deference to Mycroft’s strained eyes. Or the flickering of the fireplace, which had always been banked and cold before. Or perhaps it had just been a natural unfolding of something that Greg should have always known would happen, had he been truthful with himself.

Whatever it was, Greg had looked down at the other man’s face, after, uncharacteristically soft and blurred with the beginnings of sleep, and found himself overwhelmingly reluctant to complete the script: to roll away and gather his clothes; say good night; close the door behind him. So he hadn’t. _One minute,_ he’d told himself, as he’d eased himself down on the bed, one arm over Mycroft’s chest. _Just one minute._ Mycroft’s hand had settled on his forearm as their breathing had synchronized and slowed. _I’ll get up, I will, just one minute more..._

Well. It had been more than one minute, apparently. And now it is morning, and the script is well and truly in the bin, and it seems like neither of them quite knows what should come next. 

Greg props himself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slide further down. Mycroft’s hand follows, and Greg feels his skin start to wake up under the slow, soft circles being traced over his hip. He smiles, just a little, reaches over for the glass of water on the nightstand, and sees the note.

_Ah._ He takes a long drink, rinsing sleep out of his mouth, and turns back. 

“You were going to go in to work.”

“Yes.” 

“At--” he double-checks the clock beside him. “Six o’clock in the morning.”

“Yes.” 

“On a Sunday.”

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s eyebrow raises as he lifts his gaze. “The needs of the British Commonwealth do not cease to cry out for attention simply because it is _Sunday.”_

The acerbity is back in his voice. He removes his hand, straightens his posture, and Greg can see exactly what will happen next. Mycroft will explain the location of the sugar and the tea. He will put on the suit jacket hanging over the bedpost. His eyes will shutter, his face will close, and he will leave. It won’t be the usual, but the result will be the same; this moment will be gone, and it will never come again. 

Greg takes a breath.

_Just do it, Lestrade._

“Mycroft,” he says. He sits up, shifts Mycroft’s hand back to the bed, and deliberately starts undoing the cufflink at his wrist. 

“What--” Mycroft is startled, but he doesn’t resist, and he offers up his other wrist when Greg holds out his hand for it. 

“You are not going in this morning.” The second link slides out of its buttonhole, smooth and cold on his palm before he tips it onto the nightstand.

“I’m not--”

“No.”

“A bold assertion.” 

“Is it?” Greg hears Mycroft’s breath catch as the crisp white sleeve falls open and his lips meet the other man’s pulse. He moves closer, keeping his dark eyes on Mycroft’s grey ones, letting his mouth brush up the delicate path of his inner arm.

“Gregory. Greg.” Mycroft clears his throat. Greg moves closer, skimming his hands up Mycroft’s arms and across his shoulders. He loosens the precise knot of his tie. “The summit next week is ... delicate. Preparation is of the utmost necessity.” Greg undoes one button at the top of his shirt, two, moves on to open his waistcoat. “ I will be missed if I do not--”

“Missed?” Greg is almost in Mycroft’s lap now, naked thighs tight around bespoke tailoring. “That’s too bad.” Hands pulling the shirttails free from the back of the other man’s trousers, he brings his mouth close to Mycroft’s ear. “I suppose you’ll have to tell them you were late because your _lover_ made a mess of you.” 

_Lover._ It’s a risk, that word. He pitches it low and rough, and is rewarded by a small, involuntary sound in the back of Mycroft’s throat. He lets his cheek brush against the side of Mycroft’s face, morning stubble against just-shaven skin, before pressing open lips against the base of his jaw.

Mycroft turns his head, exposing the elegant length of his neck. Greg hears a sigh as he lets his mouth work its way down to Mycroft’s collarbone; one hand comes up warm and steady between Mycroft’s shoulder blades, supporting him as they ease back and down onto the mattress. 

Mycroft pulls back, leaning on one elbow, and looks him up and down. Greg feels the path of his gaze, cool despite the colour blooming in his cheeks. He’s suddenly very aware of his own morning-mussed hair, the tight expansion in his chest, the erection growing hot and full against the crease of his thigh. 

“Well. If that’s what you're going to do, best get on with it.” 

Greg feels something warm and confident bloom under his ribs at the tremble beneath Mycroft’s usual drawl. 

“Hmm.” One corner of his mouth quirks, just slightly. “No.” 

“What?” Mycroft’s eyes flash. “Gregory Lestrade, if you are wasting my time, on a day I should be _working—_ ”

“I’m not going to waste your time.” Grinning broadly now, Greg slides along the length of Mycroft’s body, taking a moment to luxuriate in the caress of cotton and wool. “I’m just think there are better ways to use it than just _getting on with it_.” 

He traces the high plane of Mycroft’s cheekbone with his lips. Mycroft shifts underneath him. He’s hard, too, inside his trousers, his cock pressing long and warm between them; Greg knows that if they _were_ to just get on with it they could get off quickly, easily, with nothing but this. He wills his own hips to still, instead, and turns his head to gently capture Mycroft’s mouth with his own. 

It’s been one of the unspoken agreements of this-- _arrangement--_ that they don’t kiss like this, slow and luxurious, full of promise. Greg does it now anyway. He takes his time, gently easing Mycroft’s mouth open, teasing with lips and teeth and tongue, until Mycroft’s hands are tight in his hair and Mycroft’s breath is ragged against his cheek. Little sparks of desire start to tingle in earnest under his skin, rippling down his back, gathering in a pool deep in the bowl of his pelvis. He presses closer and deepens their kiss, tangling their tongues together as he allows his hips to roll, just once, into the heat and pressure between them.

Mycroft arches his back, pressing them closer. That little noise is in the back of his throat again, and Greg breaks free from the kiss with an answering groan to smear his mouth down Mycroft’s throat, nosing under the edge of his shirt collar where the light cedar scent of his cologne mixes with the rising warmth of his skin. His fingers work at the knot of Mycroft’s tie again, then move on to his shirt, exposing pale skin made gold by morning sunlight. 

Shirt fabric bunching in his fists, Greg slowly lets his mouth work its way down. He knows what Mycroft likes by now. He knows that laving his tongue over Mycroft’s nipple will make the other man breathe deep and sharp while the flesh hardens and peaks. He knows running his hand from the back of his ribs around the side of his waist will bring hips rocking closer, eager to meet him. He knows trailing his nose down the soft line from sternum to navel will make Mycroft go utterly still with anticipation. 

What he didn’t know, Greg realizes, looking up the length of the bed, is how _gorgeous_ Mycroft would be when he’s taken apart slowly. Flushed skin; mussed hair; arms flung out; clothing bunched up in crumpled disarray--the intensity of it comes over Greg suddenly, in a rush, and he has to take a breath as his hands work at the buckle of Mycroft’s Italian leather belt. 

Belt pulled through trouser loops and dropped to the floor, Greg settles himself down between lean thighs. He noses at Mycroft’s cock, mouthing at it through strained fabric, and chuckles as he hears Mycroft huff with impatience. He undoes button and zip and eases both trousers and pants over Mycroft’s hips, letting his cock spring free, pre-ejacualte beading at the end of its length as it juts into the air.

  
Greg leans in, breathing the scents of soap, and fresh sweat, and sex, and licks a long, steady stripe from the root to the tip. Mycroft groans into the silence of the room. Another long swipe of his tongue, another full-throated moan, and Greg is already filling with the urge to rut into the bed and carry himself along until they both tip over into climax. He takes Mycroft’s cock into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks; Mycroft is making the most incredible, incoherent sounds, but again something says _not yet._ And so he sucks, and strokes, and watches, waiting until Mycroft is panting, heel of his hand caught between his teeth, back arched high, before gently letting him go and crawling up to the head of the bed.

“Are you really--going to stop-- _there_?” Mycroft gasps.

Greg dips his head down and pulls Mycroft’s earlobe gently through his teeth. “No,” he husks, and leans over to open the drawer in the nightstand. He comes back with a square foil packet and a slim container of lube. Lifting himself up, he opens the tube, slides some of the cool, slick contents over Mycroft’s fingers and guides his hand over the curve of his hip to settle at the cleft of his arse. “There. Go on, then _._ ” 

“I—what—” Mycroft’s eyes are unfocused, still coming back from the edge. 

Greg arches back into his hand. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. Go on, I said. _Please._ ” 

Whether it’s the teasing words, or the rawness Greg can’t keep out of his voice, Mycroft collects himself enough to arch an eyebrow, just a little, and slide his hand downward. Greg gasps as clever fingers find the tight ring of muscle, caressing in firm, sure circles; he bears down and lets them slip in. And then Mycroft is opening, stretching, stroking him in just the right place; Greg’s world is narrowing to nothing but the fingers inside him and the heavy, warm wave of _need_ washing through him; and he’s spun this out as long as he can but now he knows he can’t wait any longer.

Trembling, he picks up the foil packet and rips at it with his teeth. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he rolls the condom over Mycroft’s cock, hard and flushed, and reaches for the lubricant. Mycroft hisses and throws his head back as he strokes it over him. Greg positions himself, guides Mycroft to where he needs him, pauses. 

“All right?” he asks, breath ragged.

“God, yes,” Mycroft pants. “Have you not been paying attention?”

Greg would laugh but he’s too far gone. He lowers himself, gradually taking Mycroft in, until he’s fully seated on the other man’s pelvis. 

_Finally._ Mycroft’s hands come to Greg’s hips, guiding him, as he thrusts in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Impossibly, Greg’s erection stiffens even more, straining upward, desire leaking from the tip as he takes Mycroft inside him again and again. He cries out, the edges of his vision going white, feeling all at once like he could go on like this forever and that he’s _so close, so close_ …

Chest heaving for air, Greg looks down. Mycroft’s eyes are closed. There’s a slight crease in between his eyebrows. _He’s holding back_ , Greg thinks, and that isn’t what should be happening right now at all, so he does the first thing he can think of and again bends down to Mycroft’s ear.

“Go on, love,” he coaxes, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Come now, inside of me, come for me, go on--”

“Ah--” Mycroft moves faster, losing his rhythm, convulsing over and over as his climax overtakes him. Finally he falls deeper into the mattress, face damp and flushed. 

He’s lovely, _perfect_ , and Greg wants to take a moment to relish in the sight, but Mycroft looks up, reaches for Greg’s aching cock, and with one sure, smooth stroke of his hand Greg is once more thinking of nothing but the sensations coursing through his body. He throws back his head as the pleasure builds, and builds, and builds, until it explodes, white-hot ecstasy surging through him, shouting as he comes in shuddering waves that seem like they will never end.

Weight sinking into his arms, aftershocks quivering under his skin, Greg waits for his breath to come back under his control. Carefully, he eases the two of him apart, feeling the emptiness where Mycroft had been. He disposes of the condom in the bin beside the nightstand, turns back, and the sight of Mycroft, ravished and besmirched, hits him square in the face.

“Oh, God,” he says. He rubs at the back of his neck. “Your dry cleaner’s going to have a bit of work.”

Mycroft props himself up on the bed. “Well, you did promise to make a mess,” he observes.

“We, ah, didn’t even get your shoes off.”

“No.” One corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifts slightly. He adjusts his soiled, rumpled clothing and rises from the bed. “You may use the bathroom down the hall,” he says as he moves toward the ensuite. 

Greg finds the bathroom, turns the shower on hot and hard, and lathers himself with soap that smells like cedar. He breathes the scent in deep as he scrubs his fingers through his hair. He stands under the water for a long time, hands braced on the smooth tile, steam rising around him. When he knows he can’t put it off any longer he steps out, dries off with one of the towels waiting on the rack, wraps it around his waist, and pads back to the bedroom.

Mycroft is fully dressed again, adjusting his cuffs in front of the dresser. A fresh tie lies around either side of his turned-up collar. Greg finds his clothes, folded neatly on the bed. He dresses quickly, and looks around the room as Mycroft applies the last touches to tie bar, watch chain, and pocket square, wondering how they got from there to here quite so quickly. 

“Well, I--” Greg clears his throat. “I’d best be off then.” He picks up his coat and makes a move to the door.

“Gregory.” Mycroft turns to face him. His eyes don’t quite touch Greg’s face, sliding off to a spot on the wall instead. He takes a breath. “If you are indeed to be my-- _lover_ \--I believe the done thing is to offer a kiss before you leave.”

The knot in Greg’s sternum comes loose in an instant, and he feels himself breaking into a broad grin. “Happy to,” he says, and steps close. Wrapping his hand around the back of Mycroft’s head, he brings their lips together. 

The kiss is soft, and sweet, with a hint of toothpaste. Mycroft’s fingers brush across Greg’s cheek, and Greg smiles against his mouth. He pulls back, eyes meeting full on now, and reaches up to smooth the curl falling down Mycroft’s forehead.

“Dinner, next Friday?” he asks quietly. “You can come to mine.”

“I--yes. Yes, thank you. That would be--that would be nice.”

“Be there at seven, then. You know the way?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” And Greg is out the door, on the pavement, and into late-morning sunshine, head full of plans he never imagined he’d be making even one day before. 


End file.
